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[NULL] Zeynep Nevzat

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by Zeynep Nevzat

The blinds shielding my bedroom window have been bent backwards by the paws of my cat, Who chats with the magpies that hop on the other side of the glass. Every morning I wake to the Sun blinding me with its brilliance.

Today is no exception. Except it’s not the Sun. Yet it’s just as bright. The accretion disk of a black hole.

My stomach immediately turns, As if its contents are being drawn to the singularity itself. The consuming image of the black hole plasters itself to the back of my eyelids. In a haze of spirals and lights, I somehow return to sleep. Saturn shrinks into a glass marble, Warp drives to Arrakis and veiled figures humming, Asteroid impacts foretold but unavoidable, A giant jellyfish who speaks in sonar shocks me awake. I lie, Eyes closed, Feeling myself being pulled again.

When I startle awake again a few hours later, My phone screen flashes: 07:00. I push my head out of my comforter cave. The black hole has evaporated back into the Sun, And my cat scratches at my door for breakfast.

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